


It's the True Meaning of Christmas Sam Winchester

by dimeliora



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Holidays, Incest, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 11:48:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimeliora/pseuds/dimeliora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What are the holidays without curses and family?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's the True Meaning of Christmas Sam Winchester

**Author's Note:**

> This was a Christmas gift for the lovely Sammichgirl.

"Dean. What the hell is that?" Sam's head is tilted so far to the right he's pretty sure his neck is going to lock that way, but it's still not helping. He tried upright originally, and then left, but when neither worked out he went with right. No angle was helping, so he straightened and turned to look at his brother.

 

 

 

Dean looked…well flabbergasted was probably the best term. He waved a hand and then shrugged, teeth grazing his lower lip thoughtfully. "It's a-well you know-fuck Sammy isn't it obvious?"

 

 

 

"No. No it's not obvious. It looks like a branch Dean. Like the world's saddest branch with a-is that-" He leaned in as close as possible without risking contamination from the pathetic sight in front of him. "That's a Tostitos wrapper and a Hershey's kiss. What the fuck is this supposed to be Dean?"

 

 

 

There's a moment when Sam thinks his brother will simply walk away. He has that look about him like he wants to, and Sam doesn't blame him. It's an obvious attempt at joviality, but they haven't celebrated Christmas since the year before Dean went to Hell, and honestly Sam's started to equate such decorations with bad news. If Dean sold his soul again...

 

 

 

"You know what Sammy? Fuck it. Sorry I tried." Dean's hands are held out in a gesture that could be pleading on anyone else. On his brother it's more like a prelude to violence. "Just wanted to give us a fucking Christmas, and you have to go and-well look I know it's sad, but hey you always liked _Charlie Brown_ and it seemed-ah fuck it."

 

 

 

Then Dean does walk away, and Sam's left to wonder if maybe this wasn't a really sweet gesture towards something they haven't once discussed since the Apocalypse ended and they were left with a world that was just…normal. Well as normal as it ever got for them considering they were in the middle of a hunt for something that was landing in the Grimm's Fairy Tale book of weird. No girls in comas this time though, and Sam figured he could count himself lucky on that one. It reduced his chances of having to break a father's heart, and severely lowered the number of times Dean had easy usage of princess names and feminine monikers. 

 

 

 

Which didn't change the fact that Dean had just made a goddamn _emotional gesture_ and Sam had responded with mockery and asshatness. This was going to be difficult. What he had left at his disposal was either a direct apology or an indirect gesture of his own. He was pretty sure he'd be going with the second one. 

 

 

 

So he starts by doing more research. They've ruled out the usual suspects. No pagan gods in the area as far as they can tell, no coven of witches, and no Germanic anti-Santas. Nothing really to explain the rash of behavioral modifications and missing persons in Leavenworth, Washington or as the locals are currently calling it "Christmas Town". If one more faux Bavarin/Swiss yodel-caroler sings at him Sam may go mad. Nothing to explain why the mayor gave all his money away and started ranting about the virtues of charity, or why the local veterinarian went missing the same day as the dentist and when they came back they were best friends, or where the entire football team went. There's a lot of questions with no answers, and even without the underlying tension of whether or not they should try to enact another ridiculously heavy and dysfunctionally pleasing Winchester Christmas does not help. So Sam has to make peace, because Dean won't ever do it. His brother will hold a grudge until Sam can't remember what originally started Dean's reign of terror. And there will be terror. Dean's last look at him before he walked out the door promised that.

 

 

 

Sam works his way up to it though. Gets Dean black coffee in the morning before his brother wakes up, avoids snarky responses as he researches, and mostly tries not to be a burden or a source of anger for several days, and it almost works. Almost. Until the day before Christmas Eve when Dean looks over and asks Sam if he wants to watch _Die Hard_ and Sam asks why. It may as well be a glove slapping his brother in the goddamn face for the way Dean reacts. There's an explosion of limbs and then Dean is standing and waving his arms, 

 

 

 

"What the fuck is wrong with you? When did you start hating Christmas again?"

 

 

 

"Maybe because the last time we did this you were on a one-way trip to Hell Dean?" It's a shot below the belt. Sam knows it, Dean knows it, and they're left staring at each other in the heavy silence afterwards as if the locked gazes will ease whatever is building here. What is building here? Sam can't even name it. 

 

 

 

They've been so damn awkward with each other since the Apocalypse. Lucifer tricked back into the Cage in an act that Sam would call a miracle if he still thought God gave two shits, and he won't be making that mistake any time soon. Not again. It should be better now though. They're back to hunting the standard monsters, Sam hasn't thrown his hands up and walked away in months, and other than one blow-up about a misinterpreted joke they haven't punched each other in, _Jesus_ , three weeks. Isn't that enough? Sam doesn't want to risk what little joy they've got going on here by introducing something as heavily angst ridden as Christmas. Christmas is danger. It's a minefield of bitterness and frustration. If it's not one thing it's another, and Sam just wants the day to slip past. They're too busy trying not let anyone else disappear or die. 

 

 

 

Dean doesn't hit him, but Sam wishes he would. Wishes they could just explode the tension and get rid of it. The weird, too-long glances that Dean keeps shooting him and the lack of real fighting. It's all wrong, and Sam just wants it to be gone. Instead Dean shuts off the TV, slips silently into the bathroom, and comes out fifteen minutes later to settle into the bed by the door and fall asleep. He never says a thing. No subtle digs and no insults, and Sam takes that as the shot across the bow it's meant to be. They're officially at war. _Merry Fucking Christmas_.

 

 

 

 

 

\------

 

 

 

When he wakes up Sam categories the four things he instantly knows are wrong. There's the sound of a fire crackling, and that's off because they're in a motel with an incredibly finicky heater that makes a noise a little like a snoring dog. The ceiling above him is no longer nicotine-stained yellow plaster, but instead a sweeping set of wooden beams that arch upwards in what Sam distinctly recognizes as cabin style finery. There are no highway sounds, and no loud next-door neighbor sex sounds, but there is the sound of wind wailing around a building and Sam's pretty sure the weather report didn't call for that sort of noise. The bed he is in is entirely too large, too soft, and the sheets too nice for any place they've ever stayed, and the heat pressed against his side is unmistakably Deanish. Which is the final straw to Sam's _what the fuck_ wake-up. He holds perfectly still, because maybe any second now if he just breathes really slowly and deeply this will all fade into the proper level of poverty-stricken despair setting Sam expected upon waking. Except it doesn't, and the lump pressed against him lets out a snort and flings one arm over him before it goes steel-tight and holds perfectly still.

 

 

 

Dean's callused hand slides up Sam's ribs, along his collarbone, and settles on his face. It moves softly, carefully, and Sam feels a completely unexpected burst _something_ in his belly coiling low and hot before the hand tenses and accidentally pokes him in the eye. At least he's hoping it's an accident, but it's compounded when the fingers grip viciously and push, and then there's the distinct thump of a body hitting a wood floor and Sam is left grabbing his wounded face and letting out a hissing string of expletives in his brother's direction.

 

 

 

He has time to take in the sights while Dean verbally reacts. Loudly verbally reacts. "What the fuck Sam? Why are we in the same bed and-where are-what the hell happened to-"

 

 

 

The cabin's ceilings are beam-crossed and vaulted. It's one large open room for the most part, although he can see a door set into one wall and he's willing to bet is the bathroom. The fireplace is huge, made of stones, and the fire roaring in it is nothing to shake a stick at. Someone must have built it fairly recently, and there's a huge stack of cord wood beside it waiting to add on. In the corner of the huge open room there's a seven foot tall Christmas tree decorated to the nines, and what looks like a hand-stitched tree skirt underneath. The beams, the walls, everything is decorated for Christmas, and the cabin smells like fire and wood and pine. The windows are large picture ones, and he can see a driving wind outside it with a heavy snowfall. If he squints really hard Sam can make out what he's pretty sure is a lake in the distance through the blanket of white. There are no lights outside the window, no signs of other life, and Sam wonders if he walks out if all he'll see are trees and wilderness. Dean's still going.

 

 

 

"This isn't normal. Not even for us. How could you sleep through an abduction? Who the fuck would take us out of the motel and to a cabin? Where the hell are we? Are you even listening?"

 

 

 

There are two huge parkas on a hook near what must be the entrance door, and underneath each is a pair of snowboots. Sam dons one of each and opens the front door while Dean paces around the open space muttering angrily about Sam's multitude of problems. The snowstorm outside is raging, and it blows sideways as Sam steps out onto a generous front porch decorated with twinkling lights, wreaths, and garlands. The open space in front of the cabin is obviously where a car would be parked. There's no car though, and no tire tracks in the snow. With the way it's falling someone could have left an hour ago at the minimum and the tracks would be fully covered, so that doesn't help much. There's a little shack on the edge of the yard and Sam crosses the snow-covered ground and pulls on the door. 

 

 

 

The stump outside the shack is for wood-splitting, and when he ducks his head inside the little building he finds more wood waiting to be chopped, a variety of tools including a wicked looking axe, and an ancient looking push lawnmower. No snowmobile, no snowshoes, and nothing to up their chance of survival if they start hiking through the blizzard towards potential civilization. He hears Dean's stomping gait behind him, and doesn't bother turning around when a hand falls heavily on his shoulder. 

 

 

 

Dean's voice is subdued now. Not frightened, never frightened, but hushed and angry in a way Sam is all too familiar with. Dean's seething rage. "The Impala isn't here Sam. Where's my Baby?"

 

 

 

Sam shakes his head once, and then lets it drop so he can rub at the bridge of his nose. His fingers are already half-frozen, and without anything covering his head his hair is full of snow that's melting into the collar of the heavy parka. 

 

 

 

"I don't know."

 

 

 

"Where the hell are we?"

 

 

 

"I don't know."

 

 

 

He can't tell for sure how long he's been staring at the inside of the shed, but suddenly Dean's grip is tugging and pulling him out of the little building and across the yard at a rapid pace. He finds himself dumped in front of the fire, and Dean directs his hands towards the flames and then walks back to the hook to hang up his jacket and drop off the boots. Not a word about it is said, but from the flare of pain he gets warming his hands he imagines he was out there a while staring at the woodshed while Dean continued to pace and rant inside. 

 

 

 

"Ok. Ok Sammy I'll-we'll figure this out. Don't freak out."

 

 

 

He tries. He tries so hard. "I don't think I'm the one freaking Dean."

 

 

 

He's unsuccessful. "Hey. Don't get bitchy with me Samantha. This is weird. Weird for us, and that's like, _very weird_."

 

 

 

"Yes. Yes it is." Sam's eyes travel over the room and land on the big Christmas tree again. It's the sort of thing you see in businesses that hire professional decorators and movies where set designers have hours to plan out tress a real family would never put together. Too many delicate decorations to survive tiny grubby fingers and each line of lights so carefully placed that the illusion that the tree grew with them there is almost perfect. It doesn't escape Sam's notice that it's the sort of tree he'd stare at on TV when he was little and wish for with all his might. 

 

 

 

 

 

\-------

 

 

 

 

 

The kitchen is fully stocked. The fridge has a plethora of meats, cheeses, vegetables and fruits. There's four jugs of eggnog, and Dean tests each one, but Sam's not sure if he's looking for alcohol or poison. There's bread in an actual fucking breadbox, and Sam's almost amused to find piles of gingerbread and s'more fixings in the cabinets. He and Dean search each cupboard slowly and methodically, and they pile everything that could be a weapon on the island in the center of the open kitchen without talking about it. Their duffels aren't here, and that means no traditional protection, but there are two dressers full of clothes that fit them. Sam lets out a sigh of relief that the clothes aren't covered in reindeer and Christmas trees, and Dean meets his eyes over a black t-shirt he extracted and gives him a grin. It's not a full one, no eye-crinkling, but it's close enough that Sam finds himself grinning back. 

 

 

 

The bathroom is huge. Tile and marble with a whirlpool tub and a glass shower stall. There are two toothbrushes in the holder and a huge tube of toothpaste. Just enough towels for two men, and two fluffy robes that Dean snorts at but Sam fingers carefully. Warm and soft. Meant for winter weather without a doubt. There's no closet in the main area, but there is a big fluffy couch and a huge flatscreen TV. Dean turns it on, but there's no Cable reception apparently. The DVD case beside it though is filled to the brim with holiday movies, and Sam doesn't miss the way Dean's fingers linger over the collection of _Die Hard_ movies. Doesn't miss the thoughtful look that crosses Dean's face as he steps away and carefully closes the door without removing a single case. 

 

 

 

There's no liquor other than the eggnog, and so Dean and Sam find themselves sitting at the table with two glasses full and a jug for each of them as they list off possibilities. 

 

 

 

Which started out in an orderly fashion, but after half a jug apiece it's started to devolve a bit. 

 

 

 

"Witches. It's always fucking witches man. Some, I dunno, crazy Christmas loving witches." 

 

 

 

Sam squints at his brother for a second before it hits him. "Druids. Winter solstice and human sacrifice. That makes sense right?" 

 

 

 

Dean nods so hard he falls half off of his chair. "Yeah. Yeah totally. Druids with hoods and shit. Didn't they have something about-uh-like mistletoe?"

 

 

 

That's right. Druids and mistletoe. So he and Dean are here being prepared for sacrifice. Which explains the fridge. "They'll fatten us up and eat us."

 

 

 

"Sammy that's-" But Dean doesn't finish. He's too busy laughing hysterically and clutching his ribs. Sam watches the eye-crinkles he was missing earlier. 

 

 

 

"Maybe it's a Djinn. You wanted Christmas and-" Sam lets his sentence be finished by an expansive hand-gesture. Dean seems to consider that for a long time before he shakes his head.

 

 

 

"That would make you fake and you're not fake." He pinches Sam's left pectoral hard and Sam slaps his hand. "Are you? You a dream Sammy?"

 

 

 

"It's Sam." How many times has he let that one go? "And no. That fucking hurt dude."

 

 

 

"Well serves you right. I don't fall for that shit twice. Plus I'd remember if we were hunting a Djinn. Fuckers leaves you listing for weeks." Dean considers his eggnog for a second before downing the rest and pouring more. 

 

 

 

"So, Druids yes and Djinn no. What else? Pagan gods?"

 

 

 

"We ruled that shit out didn't we? No blood and no deaths. Yet." 

 

 

 

"Missing football team might be dead. We never found out." Sam finishes his own eggnog and enjoys the pleasantly fuzzy feeling indicating rapidly approaching severe drunkenness. "Could all be carved up on an altar and here we are drinking eggnog in our cabin. That would make sense. 'Cause fuck it right?"

 

 

 

Dean nods sagely. "Fuck it. This is strong shit."

 

 

 

"Yeah." Dean's smiling again, and considering the tone of their conversation that's probably not right, but Sam's smiling too so it's not that weird. Or is it? It's hard to tell now. They should probably be doing something, but the only thing that seems to make sense is to finish the jug. After all they started it. 

 

 

 

"Maybe we're dead. We do that a lot. Could be dead."

 

 

 

"And this is Christmas Heaven?"

 

 

 

Something in Dean's expression darkens for half a second, and then it's gone and his brother just looks pensive. Which is a bad look on Dean. Very bad. Sam makes a command decision then and there to remove that look, because Dean is much better when he's smiling, and he never does that enough. It's perfectly logical after all. So Sam reaches out across the gap between them and digs his fingers into Dean's armpit. There's a high-pitched noise, and then Dean is slapping at his hands while Sam tickles him harder. Harder and harder until they're on the ground flailing at each other like when they were kids and Dean's taking advantage of the fact that Sam has his own weak spots. It takes a minute to realize that he's sprawled underneath Dean, his brother slotted between his legs and their chests pressed against each other before Sam sees that Dean's not laughing anymore. He's panting, and there's a flush that emphasizes his freckles and brings out the green and gold in his eyes in a way Sam doesn't ever remember seeing before. They stay there for what feels like an eternity, staring at each and panting as that something starts building again. Something dark and heavy, and then Dean's rolling off and reaching for the jug. Drinking straight from it. 

 

 

 

Sam doesn't stop him. 

 

 

 

 

 

\-------

 

 

 

They're both too drunk to really stay awake, and they rock-paper-scissors for the bed. Sam wins, so logic prevails, but the only blankets in the entire cabin are the ones on the bed. They split them without much care because the fire is huge and keeps the cabin warm and cozy. Sam falls down on the bed, lets himself sink in, and then hears Dean collapse on the couch. Which is when the fire dies, almost instantly, and the cabin is plunged into darkness except for the twinkling lights on the tree. He hears Dean slamming to the floor even as he's pulling himself out of the bed. The temperature in the cabin is dropping rapidly, and Sam's not sure if that's scientifically accurate, but this isn't really a place for that. Plus he's still really drunk. 

 

 

 

"Oh come on! Really?" He hears Dean's feet scuffling across the floor to the fireplace, and he can see his brother's outline leaning over it. There's grumbling Sam can't entirely make out, and then Dean's making his way over to Sam. "Where was that fucking lighter you found earlier? Did we put it-" Dean's voice dies when the fire flares back up. They're standing a foot or two apart and staring at each other in the firelight as the temperature climbs back up to cozy and Dean has the comforter wrapped around his shoulders like a toga as he stares open-mouthed at the fireplace. Sam can't help the giggle, and when Dean looks his way he shrugs helplessly instead of covering his mouth. 

 

 

 

"Just a prank?" Dean nods thoughtfully and then heads for the couch. The fire winks back out. There's silence for a long moment, and Sam decides to break it. "Dean. Come back to-towards the bed."

 

 

 

There's a shuffling, comforter dragging on hardwood, and then as soon as Dean is almost to him the fire flares back up and Sam's nose isn't cold anymore. They stare at each other, share a gaze at the bed, and then look to the fire. 

 

 

 

"Ok. So we're uh-" Dean rubs at the back of his neck and the blanket drops to the floor. Sam can see that Dean's wearing flannel pants that hang low on his hips and accentuate the rise of hipbones, the cut of his abdominals, and what the fuck is _this_ now? 

 

 

 

"Bunking together." He sounds squeaky, and maybe the temperature changes are going to get him sick. That can happen right? Dean shoots him a questioning glance and then pulls the comforter back up and spreads it out over the bed. 

 

 

 

"Yeah. That. Just stay on your side."

 

 

 

They haven't slept in the same bed since Sam was a teenager and got his first real growth spurt. He remembers when they did it all the time though. The warmth of Dean pressed against him under scratchy comforters and questionable motel sheets as the ac/heating unit clunked along. The sound of dad snoring and Dean grinding his teeth in his sleep as he shifted restlessly. The feeling of Dean's strong arms grabbing him up after a nightmare, and Sam had a lot of nightmares. Had them all the time even when he didn't. Even when he just wanted to be held. _What the fuck_?

 

 

 

It's a process to get settled. The bed is big, but neither of them are small guys and finding a system that allows them both to be comfortable and not touching is difficult beyond all measure. Dean throws an elbow into Sam's ribs, and Sam accidentally kicks his shin in response. Eventually though they find a compromise that they can both settle for. Which is good, because Sam's so tired his eyes feel full of grit and his body is practically boneless. So he just relaxes into the mattress and lets go. Before sleep really claims him Sam's pretty sure he can hear the vague strains of Christmas music. Odd, but what the hell? So is everything else. 

 

 

 

 

 

\------

 

 

 

Sam wakes up to Dean's breath on his neck and his heavy arm weighing down his chest. Which is actually so comforting Sam considers going back to sleep, but there's the smell of something freshly baked and a white square tucked into the front of the tree that's probably important. Plus, if Dean wakes up this way two times in a row there's probably going to be violence, and who knows which brother will end up starting it? Sam's tired of starting it. Really just tired. Instead he starts to slide out, and it occurs to him that maybe it's important that Dean isn't grinding his teeth. Which is when he really looks and sees Dean's face. He's faking it. Faking sleep, and Sam's not going to call him on it, but he knows. _Knows_ the way he's always known since they were kids and Dean would pretend to be asleep and give Sam privacy when he woke up with morning wood or when he cried after he got his first and last bad grade. 

 

 

 

He just lets Dean fake it and slips out of the bed to cross the wood floor. There are those quiet sounds of Christmas music again, but Sam ignores it in the interest of pulling the envelope from the tree. It's got their last name on it, block letters written in a solid hand. Probably masculine by the look of it but Sam isn't an expert at handwriting. Doesn't even know who'd they'd contact for that, and that gives him something to ponder as he breaks the seal and opens the letter carefully before shaking the card out of it. The cover of the thing is typical and cheery, exactly what he was expecting, but the inside is blank minus that same handwriting. A simple sentence, and Sam isn't sure if he sees red or depression. Maybe it's both. 

 

 

 

_Christmas is about togetherness and love._

 

 

 

Well. Well fuck the author and fuck his idea of Christmas and fuck this cabin. Fuck all of it. Sam drops the card on the table and opens the oven to find pies baking merrily on the tray inside it and that only makes him angrier. He goes to grab one of the tins and a hand stops his progress before he can.

 

 

 

"Dude. It's pie." Dean doesn't look as pleased as he normally would, but the admonishing glint in his eyes suggests to Sam that no level of rage is worth destroying good desserts. Which only makes him angrier. His earlier assertion that he doesn't want to start the fight slips away in the face of it. 

 

 

 

"Yeah. Pie. Presented to us by the magic cabin we're trapped in until we learn _togetherness and love_. Because it's not enough to be carved up by monsters, live in ratty old motels, or have to listen to you singing Metallica all goddamn day, now I'm going to be taught a lesson like an afterschool special. It's the true meaning of Christmas Sam Winchester, presented to you in technicolor in five parts! So yay for pie right? We're trapped here, but yay for pie!" He's to arm-waving angry. Spitting angry. What surprises him is Dean doesn't get angry back. He looks surprised, and then slightly pale, as then he takes two steps back and narrows his eyes. 

 

 

 

"What do you mean togetherness and love?"

 

 

 

"Read the damn note!" With that Sam goes to rip something down. If he can't get Dean to fight he can damn well do some damage. Unfortunately the tree refuses to budge, and not a single decoration will come down from the walls. He works at it for several minutes before he lets out a roar of frustration and goes to the rack on the wall. It doesn't take long to suit up, and then Sam is plunging out into the cold driving snow and making his way across the yard, past the shed, and into the woods. 

 

 

 

Dean can sit around all day stuffing himself with pie and staring at holiday themed movies, but Sam is getting the fuck out of here right now. _Right now god-_

 

 

 

The thought is cut off when Sam slams face first into nothing, and the world goes pitch black. 

 

 

 

\------

 

 

 

He wakes up to the softness of the bed and the unmistakable strains of "Jingle Bell Rock". Dean's on a chair beside the bed, feet propped up and oddly vulnerable looking in just socks. His arms are crossed over his chest and his eyes are closed, but he's not sleeping. Sam calls him on it this time. 

 

 

 

"What the hell happened?"

 

 

 

Dean tilts his head without opening his eyes. "You hit a wall. To be specific a glass wall. Knocked your big ass out. It was kinda funny until I had to drag you back and change your clothes. You're freaking heavy dude."

 

 

 

A glass wall? What the- Sam groans and covers his eyes. 

 

 

 

"Cursed object. One of the market stalls is selling a cursed object. Did we buy something?"

 

 

 

Dean's shrug is too careless to be honest. "No. Maybe? I bought a lot of food. Some of that local beer. Shit was really good."

 

 

 

"And something else. Did you buy something else Dean? Something that was, just maybe, cursed?"

 

 

 

Dean's shoulders go tight and up, but the rest of his body stays perfectly relaxed. He keeps his eyes closed too. "A snowglobe. I bought a damn snowglobe. Little cabin set in the middle of nowhere. Reminded me of the place we holed up when you were sixteen. You remember that?"

 

 

 

Yeah. He remembers that. "Dad was on the hunt with that Lester guy. You had a broken arm, and he left you behind to watch me. We spent Christmas locked in that old place eating Spaghetti-O's and watching movies. It snowed the whole time."

 

 

 

There's something like a smile playing at the corners of Dean's lips. "Yeah. Third best Christmas ever."

 

 

 

Which is…odd? Maybe. It's hard to tell what's odd with Dean sometimes. "What were the first two?"

 

 

 

Dean's face goes tight and hard, and he pulls his feet off the bed before standing up. "You should eat something. Your head's probably killing you. I found two aspirin in the bathroom."

 

 

 

So conversation over. Good to know. Sam put together a roast beef sandwich and ate it slowly as he stared at Dean. His brother was digging through the cabinets in the kitchen as if he was looking for something specific. Sam wanted to ask, he really did, but he was almost afraid of the answer. Dean had bought a cursed object, and knowing Dean that meant there was some long and drawn-out emotional thing connected to it that Sam didn't have a chance in hell of getting out of him. The easiest approach would be to wait for Dean to suggest a solution to their problem without suggesting that a heart-to-heart might do it. Togetherness and love. Dean had been harping on celebrating Christmas together, so maybe it was that. No, most likely it was that. Trapped in a cabin filled with Christmas shit and there couldn't be much of a question as to what it was. The better query was why in the hell Dean thought this was the way to get that. If he'd told Sam-

 

 

 

But that probably wasn't true either. if Sam was honest with himself, and he usually was, he could admit that part of the distance and tension between them was his fault too. The end of the Apocalypse should have meant something more for them. The end of the hostilities, of the trust issues, but it hadn't. Instead there was just that anger building between them, that oddly twisting thickness in the air that Sam couldn't understand or explain. It was in Dean's eyes late at night, in the lines of his body in the morning, and it colored every interaction they had. Sam knew it, and he should have done something about it by now. Instead he had just let it go because it was easier. Because he was tired of fighting. Which was a Dean thing to do if he'd ever seen one, but Sam was willing to admit that sometimes his brother's approach to emotions was preferable. 

 

 

 

"There's not a fucking drop of booze anywhere in here! What the hell!" Dean slams a cabinet door, pauses, and then slams it again. Sam's good enough to not make a comment about the childishness of it, and that means he can save his energy for cursing when suddenly the Christmas carols he thought he heard earlier swell in volume, and Mariah Carey informs them both about Christmas and her baby. He passed Dean and opened the fridge before dragging out every carton of pre-spiked eggnog he could find and plopping them onto the counter.

 

 

 

"Ok. Let's do this."

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

They're drunk. Not a little bit a lot. Sam knows why too, although the knowledge is a little fuzzy. If Dean's going to tell him what he bought the goddamn snowglobe for, and how he activated whatever curse it had on it then his brother needs to be plastered. Which is ok. Sam can understand and he can deal. Dean has never been good at admitting things, and this is just his way. But the hangover tomorrow is gonna be epic and Sam is a little nervous about that. Who knows what the cursed snowglobe will provide them with in way of hangover cures?

 

 

 

Every time they empty a carton of eggnog one of them finds a new one in the fridge, and while the amount of pasty liquid he has to consume to reach this zen level of intoxication is ridiculous he's long since stopped caring about the taste. Somehow they've made it over to the couch, comfortable but only if they sit close. Dean's put his socked feet in Sam's lap at some point, and Sam finds himself rubbing one almost idly as they stare at the roaring fire and listen to the ninth incarnation of "Jingle Bells". The music has gotten a little bit less intrusive, volume slowly lowering, and Sam thinks there's a patter to recognize there, but this is hardly the time to analyze it.

 

 

 

"Hey Sammy, remember Christmas of '94?"

 

 

 

Sam has to squint, and for some reason the action makes his fingers contract, and Dean huffs a laugh and kicks him gently in the side before resettling. "At Missouri's right? With the dog?"

 

 

 

Dean's grin is broad, bright, and the crinkles around his eyes only accentuate the color. Sam's suddenly swept up in- but no. Dean's talking again. 

 

 

 

"Yeah. That mangy thing you brought back round the house. 'Member what she said?"

 

 

 

Sam tries his best at a Missouri impression. "Sam Winchester! You stop feeding that thing my ham!"

 

 

 

His brother waves a hand as he starts laughing. "Damn mutt got more food than we did that night! I thought she was gonna blow a gasket at both of us."

 

 

 

"Yeah but you wouldn't have been in trouble if you didn't tell her-"

 

 

 

"You probably should have seen this coming!" Now Dean is in drunk hysterics, and Sam can't help him because he's laughing just as hard. 

 

 

 

The laughter dies slow, and in the aftermath Sam thinks for a bit. "Was that the first best Christmas or the second?"

 

 

 

Something shifts in Dean's eyes, a fleeting shadow moving through forest green, and then it's gone leaving behind only the impression of its absence and maybe something like warmth. It's hard to tell in the flickering of the firelight. When did the lights go off?

 

 

 

"Second." Dean pauses and then apparently decides to break precedent and go on without prompting. "That was the second. Missouri may have ridden our asses about manners and bedtimes but she was always real good about taking care of us. Plus, that year dad came back the day after Christmas and I got my first knife. Still got it in the trunk. Plus you were still little, and you weren't such a pain in the ass. Right in between the years you did nothing but ask questions and the years you got shitty and teenaged."

 

 

 

"I was an awesome teenager. My grades were awesome, my attitude was awesome, I was-"

 

 

 

"Awesome?" Dean supplies with one eyebrow arched and the smile coming back in full force.

 

 

 

"Yeah. Shut up. Jerk."

 

 

 

He waved a hand. "Bitch." Pause, and the crackling of the fire. "Yeah you were kinda awesome. For a little brother."

 

 

 

"Yeah, well, you were a pretty good big brother. When you weren't being a slut or an idiot."

 

 

 

Dean attempted to look annoyed and merely pulled off constipated. "I have never been a slut. I have been a fine connoisseur of women."

 

 

 

"And men."

 

 

 

The feet were gone, and Dean was suddenly so far away from him Sam felt the loss. The room had to be twenty degrees colder without Dean there. "What?"

 

 

 

Which was when Sam realized they'd never verbalized Dean's occasional habit of batting for the other team. Never talked about it, and apparently Dean had assumed Sam didn't know. _Fuck_.

 

 

 

"Well-uh-'cause you're-you know-gay?" He stammered to the end in the hopes that the upturn on the last word would make Dean laugh, or call him a girl. Anything other than that look of fear that currently held Dean's face.

 

 

 

"I didn't know-fuck Sammy I always thought-"

 

 

 

"That I didn't notice? I'm your little brother dude. I followed you around _a lot_." He can read Dean's face all too easily. He had to be very careful for this next part. "I tried it too. Dudes. First semester at Stanford before I met Jess."

 

 

 

Was that a blush or firelight? It was hard to tell. A swift series of emotions flew across Dean's face before his jaw tightened and he swung his legs back up onto Sam's lap.

 

 

 

"Get back to rubbing bitch."

 

 

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

When he wakes up the fire has died down a bit and there's a hand playing in his hair. It takes a while to figure out that he's in the bed instead of the couch, and that the hand is Dean's. In case his brother is trying to slowly relax him before he gives him the worst wet willie in history Sam holds perfectly still and prepares his counter-attack.

 

 

 

Then Dean starts talking, and Sam knows without a shadow of a doubt his brother knows he's awake. Knows and wants him to hear this. "I just wanted to spend time with you. To have a good goddamn Christmas without all the death and shit hanging off of us. I wanted traditional and normal like you always wanted, so you'd enjoy it too. I wanted us to be _together_ again."

 

 

 

Sam shifts once, instinct, alcohol, and sleepiness making his decision for him and presses his lips against the palm of Dean's hand. "It's ok Dean. It's ok." They don't talk more. Dean leaves the skin of his palm against Sam's lips for a long time, and then it's gone and they're just lying beside each other shoulders rubbing and ankles touching. Sam knows the second Dean finally drifts off, and then he lets himself go to. 

 

 

 

When he wakes up again there's no hangover, thanks cursed object magic, and Dean is standing in the middle of the floor staring at the interior of the cabin in what looks a little like horror. There are new additions to the decorations, and Sam runs his eyes over the increased amount number of garlands, tinsel, lights, and what looks to be the biggest bunch of mistletoe he's ever seen hanging from the bathroom doorway. And the doorway that enters the cabin. And  the couch, the bed, and oddly enough the window next to the tree. He'd laugh if it wasn't so goddamn peculiar. Instead he laughs because Dean's mouth is moving but no sound is coming out. His cheeks are a bright vivid pink, each freckle standing out on his pale skin, and Sam almost stops laughing to take in the sight. Instead he falls out of the bed clutching his stomach and listens as "Hark, The Herald Angels Sing" picks up volume and Dean's eyes narrow and glitter fever bright as he glares at Sam. 

 

 

 

It takes at least twenty minutes to compose himself, and his abs are sore from laughing and his shoulder is sore from Dean's punch. It's well worth it. Now that he's standing Sam sees a pile of presents under the tree, a plate with one half-eaten cookie and an empty glass of milk on the kitchen counter, and the smell of baking ham coming from the oven. There are pots on top of it, and Sam peeks in each one to find buttery mashed potatoes, peas, and fruit compote. It's the last that really sets his mouth watering, and when he looks up to see Dean staring at him with the strangest expression Sam doesn't even think twice to laugh again, more open-wonder this time than mockery, and reach out to hug his older brother. 

 

 

 

"It's what we had at Missouri's Dean! Almost exactly what we had!" There's a bowl on the table already and Sam rushes over to lift the cover and find crescent rolls. He sinks his teeth into one instantly and the buttery flaky roll is perfect. Just perfect. Dean's grinning now, this odd, secretive little smile and Sam cocks an eyebrow as he devours the last of the roll. The slight shake of Dean's head insists that it's nothing and Sam lets it go. They rush through loading plates, and then they're sitting across from each other with red and green candles flickering between them in Santa Claus holders. The salt and pepper shakers are similarly thematic, and Sam rolls his eyes which has Dean laughing around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. Sam is stuffed and satisfied. 

 

 

 

The presents are practically glowing, Sam finds that they all have nametags, and each one claims to be from Santa. Which would make him laugh at any other time, but this seems a little serious now. Instead he separates them into two piles and then sits Indian style in front of his and waits for Dean to indicate who should start. Because why not?

 

 

 

If he thought Dean would do so graciously he was sorely mistaken. "Well, I'm older, but Christmas is for kids Sammy. So rip in!" 

 

 

 

Sam has to bite his lip to avoid a completely inappropriate smile, because encouraging Dean will only make things worse. Instead he picks the first box up and pulls the paper off to find the most hideous Christmas sweater he's ever seen. Whatever runs the snowglobe kicks in, because the minute he's holding it the Rudolph knitted into the pattern starts to blink to remind him that the joke is most definitely on him. If Dean laughs any harder he's going to pee himself, but Sam puts the sweater to the side and opens the next box. Inside he finds a gorgeous leather-bound copy of _The Odyssey_. He can't stop touching it, and Dean has to nudge him to open the last two boxes. The next one he recognizes the second he opens it. They're the Russian Wedding Cookies he used to get at the bakery in Palo Alto, and he hasn't had them since a month before Dean showed up in the middle of the night and his world went back to being upside down. Or rightside up as he likes to think of it now. He shoves one in his mouth instantly and tastes the powdered sugar and nuts with glee. Dean snatches two, makes a noise when the first crumbles before he can bite into it, and then shoves them both in his mouth at once.

 

 

 

Sam's shared enough small motel rooms to know the sound Dean makes is sexual in nature. He ignores it in favor of taking another rounded cookie and opening the last box. It takes a while to figure out what he's holding, and then he starts laughing nervously. Which Dean scents like a shark finds blood in the water. The box holds two envelopes, both with the name Santa scrawled on them in Sam's own slanted handwriting. It's shaky though, because he was drunk when he addressed them. Before he burned them. Dean squints thoughtfully at the two letters before letting it go. It's an act of charity on par with giving a stranger both your kidneys. 

 

 

 

Dean is treated to a sweater a shade more hideous than Sam's, but the two envelopes remind him that now is not the time to start a war. Instead he nods commiseratively and then watches as Dean rips into another box that apparently holds pie. Pie that, Dean claims, has traveled from a little diner in Alpharetta, Georgia. How Dean knows this from simply holding it and smelling it Sam doesn't question. His brother is a superhero when it comes to pie. There's a baseball cap in the next one, and Sam doesn't get why Dean looks so excited until he hands it over and Sam finds out there's a sap built into the brim of the cap. A hat that doubles as a weapon…maybe it is Santa Claus. The last box has a picture of the family that Dean certainly does not tear up over and Sam does not mention. Dean does manage to get out that it burned in the fire, but he remembers it. 

 

 

 

"That's the day they brought you home Sammy. That's your first picture." Sam studies the happy family in front of the little house. Dean grinning so bright and broad at the camera he looks like his little face will burn the right through the film, dad smiling down at mom with a look on his face that seems suddenly familiar although Sam can't place it, and mom. Mom holding him and grinning with the same smile Dean has. That's their family, and now it's Sam definitely not tearing up as Dean pats his shoulder almost awkwardly and looks at the picture.

 

 

 

They move to the couch, and watch the first two _Die Hard_ movies before Sam, being the most incredible little brother in the world, allows Dean to put in the two-hour _Dr. Sexy M.D._ Christmas special. Sam doesn't realize until the melodrama is wrapping up, Dr. Sexy and his on again off again girlfriend are most certainly on again, that Sam realizes he's still clutching the two envelopes, and since Dean is so enraptured he slides the one he knows is his to the top and stares at it. He should probably just throw it into the fire again. 

 

 

 

"So what are they?"

 

 

 

Sam jerks at the unexpected voice, and looks up to see that Dean is ignoring the finale in favor of studying him. 

 

 

 

"Uh. It's-it's stupid." 

 

 

 

"Not that stupid. You been staring at them for an hour Sam. What are they?"

 

 

 

He rubs at his hair. As much of the truth as necessary to avoid the whole thing. "Remember the Christmas before I left for school?"

 

 

 

There's that look again, and the shadow that crosses through Dean's eyes. Sam feels instantly guilty and Dean reads it in him. "No big Sam. All is forgiven man. I remember. Got you drunk on Jack and then held your hair while you puked for an hour."

 

 

 

Of course he'd remember _that_ part. "Yeah well, we wrote Santa letters. While we were drunk. These are those. Letters." Oh good. Stumbling over words won't make Dean any more curious. &nbsp

 

 

 

"I don't remember that. Must have been pretty memorable if Santa brought you the letter instead of the present." Sam gives him a look and Dean holds up both hands. "What? It's not totally off the table Sam. We're never disproven Santa."

 

 

 

"Yeah, but Santa isn't doing this. A cursed snowglobe is doing this. Anyway it was just-it was this stupid drunk whim we had. I don't even know what you wrote."

 

 

 

Dean raises an eyebrow and then snatches the letters. For several minutes Sam is suddenly twelve again, because even though he's taller than Dean now, _bigger_ than Dean, he can't seem to get them back out of his brother's hands. They end up at the window next to the tree with Dean playing keep away and Sam grabbing desperately for the paper. Dean gets one open somehow as Sam manages to snag the other one. Luck, as always, is not on his side when he opens it to find Dean's sloppy drunk handwriting instead of his. He snaps his eyes up and sees Dean already reading the letter. Eyes moving rapidly over words Sam has never shared with anyone. Ever. 

 

 

 

There's silence in the room, not even the Christmas carols break it, and then Dean looks up with parted lips and wide eyes. Sam expects a punch. Something violent and sudden, and he'd deserve it. Instead Dean holds the letter between them like an offering and speaks in a hushed tone Sam doesn't recognize. "This why you were gone before next Christmas?"

 

 

 

Sam shakes his head miserably. Any second now. "I left because I needed to. 'Cause I needed to find out who I was and see if I could be something other than an extension of you and dad. I left for me Dean. Not because of that."

 

 

 

He hears the letter flutter to the floor, but it's secondary to the sensation of weightlessness as Dean jerks him forward through the space between them and connects their mouths. Dean's lips are slightly dry, a little chapped, but Sam forgets that when his brother's tongue slides along the seam of his lips and reminds him that he needs to make a decision. Which means nothing to Sam, nothing at all, because the decision was made before he wrote the letter Dean just dropped. He opens his mouth and lets Dean in, and then there's a burst of flavor so sweet and intense Sam can't remember what the cookies tasted like. He also can't remember what his toes feel like, and isn't that an odd- _oh hello._

 

 

 

Dean's hands are on him, blunt and strong as they lead him back and towards the bed. They get to the edge of it and Sam plops down before Dean follows. Raspy and thick his brother's voice pours in his ear like honey. Very stupidly sexy honey. "Read mine."

 

 

 

So Sam uses shaky hands to open the envelope, and just as he gets the seal broken his pants get opened and Dean's got his dick in his hand. Sam makes a face he imagines looks a lot like a fish on dry land as Dean smirks and then takes the head of his cock into that pink and obscene mouth. Which makes reading problematic. Still, Sam's a trooper. He can totally- _oh holy shit_.

 

 

 

Dean's licks the bundle of nerves at the underside of the head and then slowly sinks down as Sam starts the first sentence a second time. _This is stupid but it was Sam's idea, and I'm drunk. You can't give me what I want so I'm gonna ask for a real 1873 Colt Peacemaker. If you're feeling particularly jolly though I'd like Sam to love me back. Like love love. Can you ask Santa for that? Fuck it. I just did. Happy Christmas fat man.-Dean_

 

 

 

It must take Sam forever and a day to read it, because Dean is working him like there's no tomorrow. It's not that Sam's never had amazing blowjobs before, it's that Dean is apparently a god of sex. Sex and pie identification. He lets out a slightly hysterical giggle that turns into a moan when Dean palms his balls and hums around his shaft. He tugs once on Dean's hair, as close as he can come to a warning, and Dean swallows him down anyway. Drinks every last drop Sam has to offer and then lets go of his dick with a squelch before looking up and grinning. His lips are shiny with spit and precome and probably a little bit of jizz and Sam licks it all off before pushing Dean flat onto the hardwood floor and returning the favor. Dean's hung, thicker than Sam but not longer, and Sam hasn't done this in a very long time.

 

 

 

Luckily sucking dick is a little like riding a bicycle and Sam's never been more invested in making the act incredible. He uses one hand to stroke up under Dean's shirt, along well toned muscles until he finds a nipple, while his tongue works the head and his mouth provides as much suction as he can without making it unpleasant. He can taste Dean's musk and the salty bursts of precome, and Sam can barely think because the sounds coming out of Dean's mouth are making his spent dick twitch with interest as presses one free finger against the base of Dean's cock and seeks the nerves that he knows are there. 

 

 

 

Dean arches off the floor, crying his name and gripping his hair, and that's all the warning Sam gets before he's swallowing Dean down and trying not to choke. Because Dean didn't choke and Sam's not going to live it down if he does. 

 

 

 

When it's over they're sprawled out in the bed making out slow and heavy, Dean licking all of himself out of Sam's mouth and Sam letting him. They fall asleep like that, and wake up in the motel bed they left originally. It's dark in the room, and in the green light of the alarm clock Sam can just make out the pout of Dean's lips as his brother talks. 

 

 

 

"Don't think it was a cursed object Sam. Wish. It was a wish."

 

 

 

Sam nods. Of course it was. Which explains why all the other people came back confused, but _happy_. They could look into it more, but Sam has the feeling that for once these wishes won't turn ugly. At least he certainly hopes so. He's almost asleep again when he hears Dean's low chuckle. 

 

 

 

"What's so funny?"

 

 

 

"We kissed under the mistletoe."

 

 

 

\------

 

 

 

_Dear Santa,_

 

_I don't believe in you but a week ago I put down a griffin so I'm gonna admit I don't know everything. If you're real, then this Christmas I would like for Dean to think I'm more than just his kid brother. Like everything more, because he's everything to me._

 

 

 

_Thanks, Sam_


End file.
